


cymbal hits

by starspecters



Category: Game Grumps
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, in which case tags will be added as needed, might make this part of a series of first kiss drabbles between the grumps, poetic bullshit, sorry this is so short lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-16 03:54:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5812855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starspecters/pseuds/starspecters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arin kisses him; he still has cookie dough breath from where he snuck a few squares out of the container, but Dan is starstruck all the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	cymbal hits

Arin kisses him, something soft and bubblegum pink with cartoony stars pasted on it like stickers and stamps, something that can’t be described in just the experience itself, in just the way that the pads of his thumbs get caught along the edge of Arin’s shirt sleeves and bunch the fabric up along his arms. It’s warm, Dan thinks absently. They were baking cookies; soft yellow sprinkles are caught in the crevices of Arin’s counter like butterscotch peeled with a wicker knife, right in the gutter between his sink and the marble countertops, and there’s still flour smudged near his hairline and along Arin’s cheekbones, but now he’s backed up against aforementioned counter, backs of his thighs pressing into the top of the dishwasher – it must be running, he can feel the steam soaking through his jeans -, and Arin is kissing him.

 

“Oh,” he says, nearly silent, and he’s still close enough that he feels his lips nudge Arin’s when he speaks. The timer is ticking away in the background, the only indication of time passing, and orange soda fizzles in his abdomen like pop rocks. His lips are buzzing; Arin is breathing on him. Dan curls his toes, presses them into the hardwood floor underneath his dinosaur socks – the ones Arin bought him for his birthday -, and he narrowly resists the urge to overthink, to push Arin away. Instead, he blinks, twice for good measure, and waits for Arin to say something, _anything,_ as he stands there endlessly flashing HELP ME in bright neon lights.

 

“Oh,” Arin mutters in something that sounds like agreement. He’s still looking at Dan’s mouth like he’s barely resisting the urge to do it again, and there’s a pink tint glowing underneath the flour on his cheeks that might be a blush or a natural hue he’d never noticed before. He’s never been this close to Arin, and it’s like looking at something he sees everyday through colored glass.

 

Dan’s hands are still on Arin’s arms, an insignificant detail, but his fingernails hang off his biceps like wind chimes. After a long moment, Dan presses down harder, briefly, a quick, reassuring squeeze to give Arin a go-ahead because he’s _still_ looking at Dan’s mouth with the kind of concentration he can only conjure up for things he really, _really_ enjoys. For the first time, Arin’s eyes flicker up to meet his, and then he crowds up against Dan again, chest resting comfortably on his, positions his head and closes the distance.

 

The timer _buzzes_ ; Arin stumbles back jerkily, and Dan’s laugh skitters through the kitchen.

 

The moment is broken, shattered like fine china, but Dan still steps forward, curls his hands onto Arin’s waist and kisses him properly, fists bunching up the fabric near his hips.

 

By the time they’re done, the cookies are burnt in the oven.

 

They eat them anyway.

 

 


End file.
